


What the Heart Sees

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Cuddling & Snuggling, Imprisonment, M/M, Manipulation, Sensory Deprivation, blindfold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 04:39:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15964883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: Even though the sentiment is so cheesy it could have been taken out of one of Donut's cliché fanfictions, Grif forces himself to admit that it's a comfort to have Simmons with him in an otherwise hopeless situation.But company in misery never seems to end well.





	What the Heart Sees

“Grif? Grif, can you- can you hear me?”

He could. Trapped as he was, he could still make out Simmons’ voice in the darkness. It was a small comfort, especially with the increasing panic pounding inside his throbbing skull. It felt like a hangover, the really bad kind.

“Simmons,” he said, reaching out despite seeing nothing. It was pure blackness, as if he hadn’t even opened his eyes.

Instincts kicking in, his hands went to his face, wanting to claw at whatever was covering his vison. But something stopped them from reaching the fabric he could feel against his eyelids. It was pressed against his skin all the way down to his nose to make sure no light got through. Like one of Donut’s stupid sleeping masks, except much tighter.

He tried to move his hands again, sensing the handcuffs keeping his wrists together. He supposed there was a chain around his waist, connecting them to it, as every time he tried to reach out, he could feel the tug in his abdomen. With the few inches of freedom he could move his hands, he had to lower his head in order to feel the restraints connected to the blindfold.

He could feel how it was kept in place by straps going to the back of his head, biting into his skin. His fingernails scraped against the second strap below his chin and all the way around the top of his skull, pressing down on his black hair. The more he tugged at the restraints, the tighter they seemed to become.

“What the fuck-“

“Don’t touch it!” Simmons’ voice sounded so loud in the silence. “I think- I think they’re playing mind games? Maybe?”

He reached out, trying to find the source of the voice. “Simmons.”

“I think they will get angry if we remove it. It’s sensory deprivation and- You can’t see and I- Grif, they put something in my ears-“

“Simmons-“

“I can’t hear you,” Simmons told him. “I can see your mouth- you’re saying-“ He breathed in deeply. “You’re saying my name.”

Simmons’ tone – soft, a little bit sentimental, and very dorky – made the corners of his mouth twitch. For a moment he parted his lips to speak, only to remember that it wouldn’t matter to Simmons. Of course, it would depend on how good the guy was at lipreading.

But even then, it wouldn’t be quite enough, not with the darkness and his aching skull and the growing confusion about what happened. Grif moved his arms until the chains dug into his wrist, but when he stretched out his fingers, they brushed against something warm and soft.

Simmons’ hand closed around his own, and for a moment they just stayed like that, holding hands, forgetting the awkwardness and embarrassment of the situation due to the simmering fear that no one wanted to address.

Breaths quick and a bit wet, Grif could hear Simmons’ panic. He opened his mouth again, ready to fire off a joke to lighten the mood, only to realize he had nothing to say and Simmons wouldn’t hear it anyway.

“We must have been ambushed,” Simmons said, stuttering slightly. “I can’t remember but – that must have happened, right? My head hurts. We’re in a cell. There are no windows, no- There’s nothing. I don’t know- Grif, I don’t know how to get out.”

The voice cracked, then, just a little bit at the end. Grif could hear the chains rattle as he felt Simmons shift closer. Still unsure of how well the lip-reading strategy would work, Grif said his name again, knowing he’d recognize it. “Simmons.”

This was going to be a long conversation if they had to keep going like this. But it was better than being alone. Much, much better than being alone.

A shiver went down his back as he recalled his time on Iris – the silence, the blue sky, the waves brushing against his feet – and he found it odd to know that their captors had at least provided them the comfort of staying together.

A part of Grif’s gut said that it probably wasn’t a good sign.

“I can see the door. And the code panel.” The chains rattled again. “But I can’t reach…” After a moment of shuffling, Simmons’ weight suddenly leaned against his left shoulder. Hands still tied close to his waist, Grif used his feet, pushing them against the ground in order to maneuver himself closer to his teammate.

“Who do you think did this?” Simmons asked him once they’d settled their bodies against each other. Grif wondered how weird the nerd thought the skin-contact was, but to Grif it was nice to have a constant reminder that he wasn’t alone in the darkness. “It must have been carefully planned… It must be someone smart but who’d even want to do this?”

Grif, not sure how or what to respond, just shrugged.

“Maybe Locus? If he snapped?”

Grif shook his head until Simmons abandoned that idea.

“Or- I would say Felix but he’s dead. Most of the guys we’ve fought are dead. We’re- we’re pretty awesome like that. Maybe Temple? I know he’s in jail but if he got out- I mean, we did kill Gene and Surge and- and their Biff was already dead, according to what Dylan said…“

With a frown on his face, Grif considered the idea of the evil Sim Trooper taking revenge. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d imagine such a scenario, but he supposed it’d involve armor lock. It seemed like the only thing Temple had any luck with.

It was like choosing between pest and cholera, really. Sensory deprivation or total muscle freeze. But feeling Simmons’ warmth against the side of his body, Grif knew what he preferred.

“Do you think…?” Simmons gulped. “Do you think they’re trying to make us the replicas? Do you think Sarge is here too?”

Grif couldn’t answer that.

“The others are gonna come for us,” Simmons said sternly and loudly, maybe because he really believed in his own sentiment, or maybe just because he was surrounded by silence.

As much as he hated the thought that crept into his head, he couldn’t help but think that he was glad Simmons was the one who got stuck with the earplugs.

He wasn’t sure how he could handle the silence.

* * *

With their hands bound and options limited, there was nothing left to do but wait and hope that rescue might arrive. But waiting meant time passing, and time passing meant hunger.

Grif wasn’t sure when he’d begun to zone off. In fact, he was quite sure Simmons would berate him the moment he’d give into sleep. But it wasn’t like Grif didn’t have his reasons – the constant darkness was hard to resist, as well as the comforting warmth from Simmons who’d fallen silent when he ran out of questions that never received an answer.

A hand shook his shoulder gently, and Grif jerked from the floor, momentarily forgetting why it was so dark. Even when he remembered, his chest was still heaving for air, though the desperation began to disappear when he could hear Simmons’ voice say:

“So, uhm, there’s food.”

“Food?” Grif said, struggling to sit up without the support of his palms. “Where? Wait, and how?”

Simmons never replied and that was when Grif remembered his own questions were useless.

“There’s a tray,” Simmons told him, and sure enough, when he leaned forward his fingers found the cold metal and the cup and sandwich on top of it.

The chained hands made it hard and he had to bow his head downwards, but he eventually managed to bring the food to his lips. He let out a happy huff when he tasted roast beef and quickly shoved the rest of the sandwich inside his mouth. They may be prisoners, but at least they were given decent lunch. Or dinner? Maybe even breakfast… Grif wasn’t even sure how many meals they’d get a day, but he’d be grateful for every one of them.

He still wasn’t quite sure where the food had come from. Of course, he still had no way of finding out, and Simmons didn’t tell him anything. If he’d seen their faces, he would have said something – or screamed. Maybe there was slides in the wall for food like in the old prison movies.

Getting the cup to his mouth proved to be a bigger problem, and water ended up being spilled down his chin when the chain kept his hands restrained. Grif cursed, knowing Simmons wouldn’t be able to comment on it either way, and managed to get most of the water down his dry throat.

Satisfying hid thirst seemed to soothe his headache, but the nausea that had been dwelling in his stomach seemed to awaken. Grif found himself slumping back against the wall until Simmons moved behind him to work as a cushion.

His thoughts kept flying out of his reach, and he yawned, feeling his body relax. He knew that he shouldn’t fall asleep, that he should be up and trying to find a way out, that he should be useful, but he couldn’t even move and his limbs felt so heavy anyway, and Simmons-

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been allowed to rest against the cyborg like this.

He wasn’t sure it’d happened since the time in the closet…

“Hey, Simmons?” he said, lips numb and heavy, but the question had escaped his mind before he even remembered it would have gone unheard in the first place.

Grif’s eyelids dropped and he slept. 

* * *

They’d never met a villain that didn’t like to monologue. Maybe Locus, but he’d turned out not to be a villain in the end. Maybe that was why he was such a quiet type.

Right now, he wouldn’t mind seeing Locus again. Or just hearing him.

He’d asked Simmons who he thought would be their rescuer – the guys or Locus – and after a minute of consideration, Simmons has admitted their team could be useless at times and he’d put his money on Locus. Grif wasn’t quite sure, except he knew it’d be either the former mercenary or one of the Freelancers.

But no one had showed up yet, leaving their bet uncertain.

At least the bad guys hadn’t appeared yet. Simmons was sure it was Temple, and Grif had a hard time suggesting another option. But his mind still couldn’t picture Temple so quiet. He’d had thrown at least one wrong Shakespeare quote at them at this point.

But they were left alone, in their darkness and silence respectively, and their shared touches were now their best way of communication.

And Grif found it hard to complain. Sure, the entire situation was _bleak_ – in more ways than one – but his time on Iris had left him starving for –

For this, he realized. Leaning against Simmons’ chest, feeling his breath on the back of his neck, feeling his warmth. He shouldn’t crave this touch, but without it, he was pretty sure he’d lose his mind.

Sure, it’d be better to see Simmons’ face – not to mention ditching all these chains but-

He squirmed, blinking against the blindfold. Just the thought of crawling to the door seemed impossible, with his limbs being so heavy and Simmons’ chest so warm.

Simmons pressed the glass of water against his lips, and once the surprise of the sensation had faded, Grif drank greedily, happy that he for once didn’t have to go through the problems of raising the glass himself. Every time he tried he’d always leave a mess on the floor that Simmons would comment on, not to mention how cold he felt when the water stained his shirt.

Simmons’ fingers began to play with his hair, and Grif fell back into the bliss. 

* * *

There was a certain irony to this. Or karma, or whatever you would call it. Grif was certain of that.

Back in Iris, when he’d quit, he’d wanted things to stay the same. To remain in that bubble of routine and safety that the moon had provided him for a while.

Now there was nothing left but routine, a few limited movements, daily meals and darkness. His world had been narrowed down to Simmons’ voice and Simmons’ touches, and he wasn’t sure why his mind seemed to believe that was all he needed. It was so easy to just lie back and be comforted rather than fighting the exhaustion just to find no way out.

Grif couldn’t tell how long it’d been. He’d tried to keep track of time – a hard task when your vision had been stolen from you – by counting the meals, but the numbers had slipped from his thoughts whenever the exhaustion pulled him back under.

“Your hair is tangled,” Simmons said firmly and began to run it through with his fingers.

It hurt whenever he pulled too hard, and Grif wished he’d try to get the blindfold off him instead, but he couldn’t tell him that.

Maybe Simmons was scared. That was often the case. Grif wished he could reassure him or distract him with a dumb joke, but all he could do was to reach out with his bound hands. Did Simmons know something he didn’t? That could likely be the case since only one person in this room could see, and it wasn’t Grif.

Had their captors threatened him? Grif couldn’t recall anything besides going to bed in his apartment on Chorus and then waking up to darkness and Simmons’ voice.

Simmons had never tried to remove their restraints, and instead he’d warned him about touching them. Then the cuddling had followed, the constant skin contact, Simmons helping him eat…

The cold knot in Grif’s stomach twisted as the thought hit him that perhaps Simmons knew something he didn’t, that things were not going to end well, that he was trying to keep Grif comfortable to best he could…

Grif knew he should fear for his own life, but he couldn’t help but wonder what Simmons had been told…

“Did you know,” Simmons told him while untangling his hair, “that if you fall in lava, there’s a high chance you’ll asphyxiate by the toxic gasses before the lava can melt away your abdomen?”

Grif pressed his face against his shoulder and tried to mutter a reply, never caring if he was heard or not.

 

* * *

He woke up to the sound of the door opening.

Immediately, all the muscles in his body tensed up, as if he’d been dropped in freezing water. “No,” he said, rolling over to try to shield Simmons – that should be easy since the guy was built like a stick-figure.

But he only slammed against the cold floor, much to his horror.

“Simmons?” he whispered, squirming as he tried to find the familiar source of warmth. “Simmons! You fuckers, you-“

“Grif!”

“Where the fuck have you-!”

“ _Grif_!”

“Let him go, I-“

“Grif!” Thin, warm fingers dug into the side of his face, keeping his head still as the rest of the body jerked in panic. “It’s fine! Stop- stop moving, you idiot!”

He wanted to embrace him, but the chains only allowed his hands to move a few inches from his body, and the skin around the metal was already stinging, a warm sensation mixing with the pain.

“ _Idiot_ ,” Simmons hissed at him again, wrapping his hands around Grif’s wrist as he inspected the damage. When Grif began to grow still, he could feel the blood dripping from where he must have broken the skin.

“Simmons,” he said, and he kept saying he name over and over, as if the name could drown out the sound of his anxious heartbeat, and he hoped that, maybe, this way Simmons could hear him. “Simmons.”

“It was just the food arriving,” Simmons reassured him, pressing a cold glass against his lips again. “It’s fine. You know. It’s _fine_.”

His tone was a bit more urgent than Grif would have preferred, but the water was as pleasantly cold as always and the sandwich more than soothed his hunger. An instinctual part of him wondered if Simmons ate, if Simmons took care of himself. The nerd had such a tendency to forget his own needs, he could so easily get lost in his own thoughts or given tasks, sometimes Grif just had to remind him to eat and sleep and live.

But Grif couldn’t take care of him now. He reached out but the chain bit his wrists again.

Simmons took care of him. He wasn’t sure how, but Simmons was there as a warm constant in the darkness-

“Simmons, I- _Fuck_. Simmons-“

Hard lips pressed against his own in a greedy and desperate kiss, and Grif gasped when Simmons’ tongue went inside his mouth for the first time since the Temple of Procreation.

It was like the flashback, the one that had played inside his head over and over during the lonely nights when he’d shouted his regrets into his pillow.

Simmons’ mouth against his, Simmons’ fingers in his hair, Simmons’ hand caressing his back, shivering at the cold touch of the metal.

That was the memories.

Grif’s eyes flew open, seeing nothing.

His mouth refused to move as his body collapsed, and inside his skull, thoughts were thrown around as if caught in a storm.

Simmons was fine, Simmons was fine, Simmons was- 

* * *

 

There was a bitter taste in the back of his throat.

The nausea was stronger than ever when Grif woke up, and his mouth flew open, trying to breathe in fresh air.

He could still feel the fingers in his hair, and he realized it wasn’t a memory. Slowly, with his heart beating against his ribs, he turned over, pressing his chest against the nerd’s.

Grif could hear him huff in amusement, hugging him closer.

Ignoring the pain in his wrists, Grif reached up as far as he could.

Understanding, he was given the hand to hold onto, just like when they’d woken up, when Grif had been confused and his head had hurt.

It still did. But now he understood what was wrong.

He pressed his finger down against the palm, feeling the warmth, digging his nail into the flesh until he knew it would cause pain.

“ _Grif_!”

The hand withdrew, but it didn’t matter. Grif pushed himself away from the warmth, shoulder slamming against the floor.

“You fuck!” he yelled, kicking out blindly and hoping he’d hit a shin or arm, _anything_ , really. “You slimy wannabe-“

“ _Fuck_ ,” the man yelled, and Grif could hear him stand up, but he couldn’t move away, he kept slipping, the chain didn’t allow him-

Gene’s fingers dug into his shoulders, flipping him around. Grif heard a yell when he kept kicking and he smiled, but the satisfaction was short lived when the noise just-

-stopped.

Thin fingers pressed the earbuds into his ears, securing them, making sure they stay in place, no matter how much Grif trashed his head, no matter how much he kicked-

He hadn’t thought there’d be anything else worse than the loneliness on Iris.

Grif screamed, he cursed at Gene, he kicked out, he fought against the chains, he squirmed, he rolled over, slamming his face against the ground to get it off-

He was stuck in a midst of _nothing_.

* * *

“Hey, Grif,” Simmons voice told him an eternity later. Grif wasn’t sure how long. There was no end to the darkness, to the silence.

But now Simmons’ voice was back, soft fingers stroking his cheeks after removing the earbuds.

There was no cold touch of metal. No cyborg hand.

“It’s okay,” the voice told him. “You’re all safe now.”

A glass was pressed against his lip. Grif was thirsty. He drank.

The embrace around him was warm and tight. The fingers were back in his hair, playing with the curls.

Grif parted his lips and didn’t flinch when they cracked open, bleeding. “Gene,” he said, once, quietly.

It was enough.

The hands – human hands of flesh, warm – froze, before moving down to lie heavily on face, fingertips tracing the skin around the blindfold.

“Grif,” Gene told him, using Simmons’ voice. “I know this isn’t ideal-“

“You’re so full of shit-“

“But it’s better than nothing,” he said, using his nail to scratch the skin right beneath the straps. “Right? I mean, we could just pretend…”

“You-“ Grif said but cut himself off when he felt the fingers move towards his ears. Not again. He couldn’t do that, not the silence-

Gene breathed in deeply. “It was enough for you before. So, _technically_ , you could just pretend. You should.”

Grif tried to remember what Simmons’ face looked like, where the skin met metal, all the freckles, the blue eyes…

But it was so dark.

“Where’s Simmons?” Grif asked. He wasn’t quite sure if his eyes were open.

Simmons’ voice would answer him.

**Author's Note:**

> First entry to the Bad Things Happen Bingo: "Blindfold" prompted by Stickynotedoodlers: "Gene knew he sounded like Simmons, knew he could mimic and be Simmons. Grif didnt know any of this when he landed with Locus to rescue his team."  
> I admit, I took another sorta twist on it - I ended up making it a post s15 fic instead, I hope you can forgive that!
> 
> Still open to prompts! This is so much fun to do.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


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